


The Difference Between Right and Wrong

by delgaserasca



Category: The Hour
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 18:11:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delgaserasca/pseuds/delgaserasca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Mister Lyon is in full swing when Marnie makes the realisation." Marnie Madden uncovers a story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Difference Between Right and Wrong

**Author's Note:**

  * For [storyofapainter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storyofapainter/gifts).



> With thanks to H for her cheerleading. 
> 
> Dear storyofapainter,
> 
> This was planned and (mostly) written before 2x05-2x06, so jossed – however kindly and delightfully – by canon. I hope you enjoy it regardless.
> 
> Happy Yuletide!

 

 

> this is freedom. This is the force of faith. Nobody gets  
>  what they want. Never again are you the same. The longing  
>  is to be pure. What you get is to be changed.  
>  **\-- jorie graham, _prayer_**  
> 

 

 

**I: THE STORY**

Mister Lyon is in full swing when Marnie makes the realisation, and even then she cannot be a hundred per cent sure of what she knows. There is a certain cadence to Mister Lyon's more violent outpourings that, after a while, is quite soothing. In recent months it has been a game to see how often he could erupt, dislodging Hector's good cheer. Had it not been for the press debacle earlier in the year she would still enjoy Mr Lyon's theatrics, but now it rankles her to see Hector set upon in his misery.

The impromptu soiree at Lime Grove is ostensibly to celebrate a return to form – and ratings – but was likely borne out of frustration over the damp summer. Mummy had been much luckier; her garden party had made the most of the last sunny day in July, before August swept in, changeable and contrary. It has been an awkward affair, news of Hector's arrest and the subsequent mud-slinging still fresh in everyone's minds. Marnie had made sure to stay close to Daddy, quietly turning away enquiries about her work at ITV. That, of course, had gone the way of Hector's reputation, and by the same train, too. 

Hector had not stayed long, wandering through long enough to make a respectable appearance before citing work as a reason to return to the city. His face had taken a miserable pallor upon receiving her parents' invitation, and even Marnie, for all her shame, couldn't bear to see him so scorned by public opinion. He caught her eye as he bent to say his goodbyes to Mummy and her companions - Mummy had been amidst a recently common refrain bemoaning the abolition of the debutante presentations – and nodded once, sure and sad. Marnie had nodded in reply, but had said nothing. There was still nothing to be said. 

Thomas Cowell was an old acquaintance of Daddy's, and he had gently asked if Hector was not to stay for dinner. His words had been kind, but Marnie was well-trained in the etiquette of derision; his tone belied his tender. Like all vultures, he was circling for scraps and seconds. Cowell and his brother made their trade in textiles, and his voice sometimes betrayed his roots, more so when he was being spiteful, or had been drinking. A portly fellow, with a heavy brow, his stern face had scared Marnie as a child, and did little to endear her even now. It was common knowledge that the textiles industry was losing more money than it was making. In a few years' time, it was likely that Cowell would have little to pass on to his sons, both as sneering and vulgar as he. 

So reluctant was she to pay him attention, that had it not been for Mister Cowell's febrile passions, she might not have recalled his words. But he had been quite forthright, voice booming intemperately, and Marnie had felt, rather than seen, Daddy stiffen sharply at her side. Damning words, that much as evident, but she hadn't known by how much until now, almost a month later, and those same words echo again, inverted but still powerfully put about, this time by Mister Lyon.

"There's no trade to be had in cotton," Mister Lyon says, and, _My goodness_ , Marnie thinks, _something wicked this way comes_.

 

 

 

It isn't until the papers report that the government is considering intervention in the mills that Marnie asks Hector about Mister Lyon's disgruntlement. They are sitting to dinner, on time as is so often the case these days, and there is wine to go with the loaf. Though she still takes pride in her domestic accomplishments, the bloom has been off the rose since ITV's dismissal. Each meal is an effort now where once it was a joy. Marnie is naturally averse to complacency, but it is difficult to remember this when her hopes have been so thoroughly dashed. 

"Well," Hector says, pausing to chew, "any effort on the part of the government wouldn't be more than a stop gap." He cuts up his food methodically, childlike in his concentration.

"And you must remember, darling, that cotton is big business elsewhere. Sooner or later we'll have no need for the factories, or, rather, considerably less need." His voice takes on that slightly rounded tone, the one he uses when educating those around him. It's a distinct counterpoint to Mister Lyon's frenetic, pointed delivery; where he skips, Hector sails, and it is a sound that grates on Marnie. She knows when she is being patronised. 

But something he says stirs her thoughts. 

"If the government were to intervene in Lancashire, and the factory men wanted to make the most of that intervention, would it suit them lie about the state of the factories? I mean," and now she doubts herself, even though she has waded in hip-deep, "the government wants to give them money, to modernise production, yes?"

Hector stills; Marnie thinks of her father, and Mister Cowell, and the sun on the lawn behind her parents' house. 

"What are you asking?"

Courage in hand, she takes a breath and carries on. "If somebody wanted to recoup their losses, for example—"

"Somebody specific?"

"—no. Yes. Perhaps. If they wanted to do that, they could overestimate the condition of their property, yes, and then the government would be forced to cover the cost of their repairs, and really, someone could earn a lot of money that way."

In the lull, Hector fiddles with the cutlery, the silverware twitching in his hands. It catches the light from the lamp in a distracting way, causing Marnie to flinch. She cuts into her loaf determinedly, unwilling to look up and meet her husband's querying eyes. Now, more than ever, she wonders what he sees in her face. Years ago the question had been different – did he see beauty? Kindness? Dignity? Now she wonders if Hector can see that she is holding her breath, that she has been holding her breath for almost the whole year, waiting to see, to hear what he will say next, and wanting to know if he has the words to heal the hurt she feels.

Hector's answer is slow, and his tone holds the idea of a question. Unaccustomed as he is to Marnie's lingering interest in the work, he paces his words. "It won't be that way, Marnie. The industry will be allocated a lump sum with the caveat that they must reduce their losses as much as possible beforehand. The understanding will be along the lines that any monetary sum will be in addition to preventative measures. Marnie—" he breaks off again, concerned and confused, "why all the questions?"

"Daddy knows a great many people," she says, which is only half an answer. "I do wish you had stayed to meet them in July."

"I'm a news man, Marnie, not an industry man," Hector grumbles, readying for a fight. But she has no intention of asking him to leave _The Hour_. No, she has learned that lesson the hard way.

"Yes, of course. But Daddy's friends are not in television, Hector," she says. "Daddy's friends are business men, men who make their money in factories, men who make their money in governance, and trade, and _textiles_."

The realisation dawns on Hector's face like the incoming tide across the shore. 

"What exactly do you know?"

 

 

 

It becomes an argument, of course. Hector is feverish in his insistence, and suddenly Marnie is unsure. What if what she has heard is not what she thinks it is? Worse yet, what if it is? What only moments before had seemed like an inevitable confession now seems foolish and precipitous. She wishes she could take the words back. Perhaps she should have spoken to Daddy first. He would have known how to assuage her fears, she knows. He would have told her it was nothing for her to worry about. How she wishes that were true.

"And he said this, this Mister Cowell, he said those exact words?"

"Yes, Hector, but it seemed like a gross exaggeration." (A lie.) "He'd been at Daddy's whisky, they all had, and the sun had been up—"

"Not that much, not that day—"

"More than usual—"

"But not enough that he slurred his words. His meaning was clear?"

Marnie shakes her head. "I can't be certain. I wasn't paying attention. Daddy and his friends, they do go on, and I'm not like you, Hector, these things don't interest me."

"But you heard Cowell say—"

"Hector—"

"You _heard_ him."

Marnie stands, dropping her napkin on the table, dinner half-eaten and forgotten. Hector stands, too, surprised into aborted action.

"Yes. Yes, I heard him." She thinks of the spittle flying from Mister Cowell's mouth as his ire had increased, the red of his cheeks venturing out to swallow his whole face, fat and sweating and ruddy like a farmhand. "I heard him quite clearly. But who do we tell, if anyone?"

Hector scoffs. "We tell everyone. Randall would put something like this front and centre."

"Randall? Mister Brown?" Marnie is horrified. "You want to make this a story?"

"It already is a story," Hector says.

"Mister Cowell and his brother have known Daddy for years. Could you imagine what people will say? No," she says, before Hector can interrupt, "no, absolutely not. I won't have it." 

She makes her escape for the bedroom. Behind her she hears the scrape of Hector's chair against the floor; hears the cutlery rattle on the table; imagines she can hear the wine splashing in the decanter.

"Marnie, Marnie—" he follows her into the bedroom, fraught now, reaching for her as she turns to sit on the bed. She is weary of this lark, balling her fists until the nails cut crescents in her palms. Of course he wants to take it to Randall. The Hour remains the only thing he is willing to fight for any more. It's not just Miss Rowley now, no, or the need to prove himself equal to Mister Lyon. Now there is Randall Brown whose gravelled, sombre manner elicits in her husband a powerful need to demonstrate his worth and prowess. Mister Brown had saved Hector's career and his life, and is another in a long string of people associated with that damned television show who has captured her husband's affections, flame bright and moth wise. 

He kneels on the carpet in front of her, one knee bent, and his palms held open in supplication. Reaching up to unbuckle her hair in swift, practiced motions, she tries to ignore him, pulling one bobby pin after another. 

"Darling, listen to me, please. What you've told me – what you have heard – is incredibly important. It needs to be known by other people. Thomas Cowell would be perpetrating, no, listen to me." He grabs her hands, holds them still; forces the flinch in her muscles to settle by will of grip alone. "Thomas Cowell is attempting to perpetrate a fraud in order to increase his business profits, and in doing so, he is holding the people of Great Britain to ransom. What you know, Marnie," he swallows, mouth dry as though short of breath, and squeezes her hands once, "Marnie. Other people need to know what you know." For a moment, Hector's gaze leaves hers, becomes distant and unfocused. "Can you imagine the furore? What a story—"

"And you will have brought it to the world," Marnie snaps. "Be honest, Hector. Do you really care about this, or is the lure of a good story – a clean story, something to wash your hands in – too much to pass up?"

"Marnie—"

"No!" She stands, forcing Hector to fall back on his haunches. She feels hot with discontent, her stomach tight with anguish. "Why should I tell you anything? Why should I play any part in wiping the rancour from—"

"— _Marnie_ —"

"—after _all_ the _indignities_ , and now you want to corral Daddy's friends – Daddy! Who got you this job, who brought you to your blessed _Hour_ , and for what? So you can parade a stream of women in front of me? Dancers and bar women and whores—how dare you? How dare you ask me—?"

"To know the difference between right and wrong?" Hector asks, his voice soft, hands drawn low in front of him. 

"Ha! Right and wrong. Don't you dare speak to me about morality, as though you could hoist the banner for morality, and, and decency, and righteousness—my goodness, you do go on!"

The silence that follows her outburst is pregnant with intent. Like an abbreviated pantomime, they have stilled, Marnie standing, and Hector on the floor before her. Marnie remembers the debacle at the police station, almost ten months ago, and her own insistence that her life and her actions be her own. Yet here she is, the same old hurt pulsating shroud-like around her. _We're stuck_ , she thinks, _we don't know what comes next._ This is no newsroom script. The pages have been lost.

Hector's sigh breaks the impasse. It is a weighty thing, laden with sorrow and frustration. "I know that I have wronged you immensely, Marnie, and I know that you have shown me incredible kindness to bear with me the way that you have." Worn, he clambers to his feet, reaching for her hands again, and firm when she tries to pull away. "But you must trust me with this. For all my faults - and they are many, I know - for all that, I must— _we_ must tell someone. What Thomas Cowell is planning to do cannot be borne. You know this." His voice softens further as he loosens his grip, hands sliding until hers are wholly encompassed by his, gentle, gentle. "You can trust me with the story, Marnie. Please do, darling. Please."

 

 

 

 **II: THE PITCH**  
Whenever Marnie enters Lime Grove she is struck with restlessness. The atmosphere – the noise, the rapid to-ing and fro-ing, fingers tapping out news with practised insistence – is infectious. She finds it difficult to be still in amongst the noise, but she too is well-practised. There isn't a body in the building that could make Marnie move against her will.

This is the sound of the news, that consistent pitter-patter of bodies in motion. Somewhere a telephone shrills, a door slams shut. Miss Storm is by the archives, reading through telegrams; a squirrel-faced young man whose name she can never recall brushes past, recording equipment in tow. On a small, round table at the far side of the room sit two ashtrays, smoke curling up from recently-crushed cigarette butts. There is a haze to the light which yellows in the afternoon. Everywhere there is paper; everywhere the evidence of people in absentia. The only time these rooms sit still is when everyone is on the studio floor, and at night, when everyone leaves for their beds. Even then, Hector has told her, people can be found lingering in offices, nursing warm drinks in the lamplight.

Her first impression of the office space _The Hour_ amassed had been one of excitement and awe, and a frisson of giddiness has yet to abandon her completely. Miss Storm, awkwardly piecing together German over the phone, catches her eye and smiles, genial, before looking away casting about for this piece of paper or that. Hector's office is not very big, certainly not as big as Miss Rowley's which suggests there are perks to production that Hector had not considered when pursuing the presenting role. Mister Lyon doesn't have an office of his own, merely a desk in amongst the stacks. Like as not, it suits him to be in the midst of the work, though he was not at his desk when Marnie had arrived. Instead, Hector had left her there to find him, leaving her to wrap her hands around her purse, and wonder if it would be impolite to remove her coat. She did not know how long they were due to stay.

There has been some discussion; this much is apparent when Mister Lyon enters the room, Hector and Miss Rowley on his heel. He makes a beeline for her, leaving the others in his wake. His focus is singular; Marnie is careful to school her features into something charming.

"Mister Lyon, what a pleasure to see you again, and so soon."

"Yes," he intones, as he shakes her proffered hand. "Quite. Please sit." He looks between her and Hector as they all trundle to seat themselves around the small table; some secret thing passes between the two of them and Miss Rowley. Marnie would feel excluded were she not certain they were unaware of their conduct. Miss Rowley looks neatly put together; a tower of colour in an otherwise dull room. But she also looks nervous. Unlike Marnie, Miss Rowley has the unfortunate inability to conceal her true thoughts. Her face, Marnie thinks, is quite pretty, and much like the televisions with which she works, she broadcasts her thoughts clearly. 

"Hector mentioned you had something to share with us," Mister Lyon says, once seated. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket which, she notes, has a better fit now than it did when they first met. The marriage may have ended, but the man he had become remains. He offers her a cigarette; Hector offers a light.

"I don't know that there's very much to tell," Marnie says, taking a draw. "This is rather a lot of fuss."

"Marnie." Hector is all admonishment; Marnie bites at her upper lip, trying to gain time. Is it prudent to say anything, she wonders, or would it be better to leave now, Hector be damned?

Mister Lyon smiles a little, knocks ash into the waiting tray. It's Miss Rowley who speaks, though. "Marnie, I'm sure you can appreciate that we're quite busy. If what you have to say is as important as Hector says it is, it would be best to hear it now, and not later when we can't shuffle the stories as easily." Her impatience is thinly veiled.

"I don't want to waste your time, but Hector thinks—"

"It's about the government's concerns over cotton," Hector interjects, unable to bear her indecision; Mister Lyon's attention sharpens suddenly. "Tell them what you told me."

So she does.

She starts at Mummy's party, and mentions the last of the good weather. She talks about her father's old friends, and how tradesmen and businessmen share talk the likes of which would never be aired in polite company. She talks about the Cowells, about their factories in the north, and Thomas Cowell's predisposition towards drink. At the mention of Cowell's name, Miss Storm sidles into view; Mister Lyon leans forward in his seat, knocks his cigarette into the bowl again. They seem unsurprised at the notion, but then, Marnie thinks, they are news people. Drink is part of the job.

Finally she comes to what she heard that day – to Cowell's sudden and unexpected fit of pique and her father's tacit disapproval, the quiet and discomfited shuffling of the attending company, and the loud, static silence that followed Cowell's outburst. 

Mister Lyon interrupts her in the same way that Hector did when he heard.

"Say that again."

She repeats Mister Cowell word for word.

"Dear God," Miss Storm mutters. Hector's gaze meets Miss Rowley's unblinkingly; she is startled, her features pinched with surprise. Mister Lyon looks triumphant.

"We'll have to take this to Randall."

"Do we have any proof?" Miss Rowley asks.

"We have Marnie's words—"

"Hearsay will not be enough."

"But it fits what we already know – what we suspected. It's the thing that ties it all together, you can't deny that."

"Freddie, don't be ridiculous, we can't put unsubstantiated recall up in place of fact."

"It's not unsubstantiated—"

"It might as well be – we need paper, we need records, some sort of tangible—"

"It speaks to intent!"

"Intent is not enough! We're not in the habit of persecuting for crimes that haven't been committed."

"Bel's right, Hector, Freddie," Miss Storm says, "It would be Cowell's word against ours as to what was and was not said, and need I remind you, Mister Cowell has standing in society – political backing – that we do not have. Old money speaks volumes."

"But he doesn't have any money," Mister Lyon says. "That's the whole problem."

"Marnie," Miss Rowley says, speaking to her directly, reminding everyone that she is still sat with them, and had not disappeared as soon as they started to debate. "I'm sorry, but we can't use what you overheard, not unless there's some way for you to corroborate it, or to prove intent to act." She grimaces apologetically. "The fact is, you are not in trade. What you did or did not hear at a private party doesn't have much bearing on anything."

"But your father, on the other hand..." Mister Lyon trails off, letting the idea percolate. Marnie knew this would be the conclusion. She feels vindicated in her reluctance.

"No."

"Hector—"

"No. There must be some other way."

Mister Lyon blunts the end of his cigarette, and exhales in a thin stream of smoke. "The word of a billionaire industrialist has far more weight than the word of a housewife. Pardon me, Mrs Madden." He looks Hector in the eye, equal parts wry and insouciant. "Not to mention, what else does he know? What Marnie heard can be dismissed as the overworked imagination of someone on a little too much wine. But an established business man, with political presence, who understands the intersection of trade and government? Think what your father-in-law knows that could help us break this story."

"My father-in-law is a person, not a newsreel," Hector protests. "Bel?"

She shrugs. "I think it's worth pursuing. I'm not saying we have to have him on the show, but if he can lead us further with the story, it could be worth our while, couldn't it?"

"I'll speak to Randall," Mister Lyon says, his chair legs squeaking as he stands. "Lix, will you come?"

"Wouldn't miss it." Miss Storm turns to Hector. "Come along; you'd best show your hand."

"I brought this to you because I thought it would be a starting point," Hector says, rising to them, "not to make a mockery of my family."

Rolling his eyes, Mister Lyon makes for the door. "Loosen your tie, Hector, it's stopping the blood flow to your head." 

"Bel—"

"See what Randall has to say. And Freddie? Freddie!"

Marnie stays seated as the conversation continues down the corridor, the rolling thrum of Hector's voice separated by the spikes of Mister Lyon's. She puts down her cigarette; wonders if she ought to stand. She had long since decided to keep her coat on. It was quite cold in the office.

"I'm sorry about that." Miss Rowley's voice breaks her from her reverie. "Freddie can be... excitable."

"I expect nothing less," Marnie says with a wry smile. "Will they be long?"

Smoothing her palms down her dress, Miss Rowley shakes her head. "Difficult to tell. Depends on Mister Brown's mood, normally. Lix will stop them from coming to blows." Marnie's surprise must flash across her face because Miss Rowley adds, "I was joking. It won't come to that." The ruined smile on her face drops off. "I hope."

 

 

 

She waits an hour before Hector makes a reappearance, earnest in apology. Miss Rowley had disappeared some time ago, leaving her in the care of a petite office girl who brought her tea, and was happy to speak for both of them. The girl is married to the young African doctor whom Mister Lyon had interviewed the year before and evidently the couple were housed with him, though whether that meant the same flat or building or street, Marnie had been unable to determine. The tea had been a little too sweet, but warm enough to take the chill out of the room. She had been persuaded to remove her coat by Miss Storm who had returned by and by. "Men!" she'd harrumphed. "Too quick to speak, too slow to think. But then," she'd said, offering her final cigarette, "that's why they have us. If only they would realise."

"Have they reached a decision?" Marnie had asked, leaning forward for a light.

"My dear girl, they've only just managed to take their seats. No, we must allow time for pitch, posturing, argument, and denouement. Then they have to decide who will lead the story." She'd taken an inelegant puff of smoke, letting the cigarette hang listlessly from the side of her mouth, hands in trouser pockets. One could not doubt Miss Storm's sex, but she always presented herself as the most magnificent hermaphrodite. "No, time to entrench ourselves, Mrs Madden. The battle has barely begun."

Whether it has been won or lost escapes Marnie. Hector explains that Mister Lyon has been pursuing a story on the cotton industry in the country, and the government's consideration of municipal aid, having heard news of the industry's continuing decline. It was supposed to be another commentary on race relations, as the majority of mill workers had been invited to the country from India where there was a high demand for textiles. With the increasing lack of stability between whites and immigrants, Mister Lyon had been trying to find a way to bring the different stories together when he had stumbled roughshod onto the disgruntled dispositions of the factory owners whose estates were falling into decline. Two stories, then, not one, until Marnie's revelation, and now that was to be the story of the week, if - if, Hector stresses - they are able to corroborate Marnie's story.

 _Ah_ , she thinks. _Battle lost, then._

"You want to speak to Daddy."

To his credit, Hector is abashed. "No, darling," he says, cheeks colouring. "Mister Brown suggested it might be more prudent if – well. We were hoping it would be you."

 

 

 **III: THE SOURCE**  
Daddy is in the City to meet with his business partners later in the week, and Marnie seizes the opportunity to meet with him for lunch. She remembers the excitement of afternoon tea with Daddy when she was a child, nanny fussing with the collar of her best coast as they waited for Daddy's car to take them into town. The journey was always so thrilling, the interior of the car furnished with soft leather, and ever so slightly smoky. 

She had been so taken with the car, and Daddy's neatly pressed attire, and the elegance of the formal sitting rooms, the maidservants serving tea on trays with fine porcelain cups and saucers, each adorned with tiny silver spoons. Daddy had always indulged her with a slice of cake, and sugar in her tea – a whole cup! More than Mummy would have allowed. Then she would follow him to some solicitor's office and sit quietly, hands folded in her lap as she had been taught, making polite conversation when called upon, but mostly remaining unobtrusive. Simple pleasures, tainted by age, and the responsibility of adulthood. Tea rooms with shining chandeliers and high ceilings do not hold the appeal they once did, and were not likely to after today.

Waiting for Daddy to arrive, Marnie remembers her last conversation with Miss Rowley before Hector escorted her home. During Hector's request, and Mister Lyon's subsequent return to company, Marnie had been extended an uncharacteristic invitation into Miss Rowley's office. The last time she had sat in front of that wide, heavy desk, she had been imparting the facts of her marriage to the third person in it. Then, Miss Rowley had been flustered, caught in her compliance with Hector's infidelity; most recently all indecision was absent from her manner. Gone, too, were the sudden bursts of skittishness from earlier in the day. The office was clearly her domain.

"I know you're reluctant, and I understand why," she had begun, leaning against the front of the desk, "but your father wouldn't be in any trouble. He is not the wrong-doer here. We only want to speak with him to give us a better idea of the Cowell brothers' disposition."

"Daddy isn't one for telling tales," Marnie had replied.

"No, of course," Miss Rowley had said, "but he is an upstanding gentleman and well-known in society circles. Surely it galls him – an honest man who has worked hard for every penny, every shilling – surely Mister Cowell's intentions offend and appal him as much as they do us? Your father would be providing a service—"

"Off the backs of his friends? People he has known for years, who have dined at my mother's table, and whose sons and daughters I grew up with?"

"Off the back of his morals," Miss Rowley had countered, resolute in her surety. "He has always struck me as a fastidiously honest man, Marnie, whose care for his family supersedes his appetite for avarice." Something in her tone had made Marnie think of Hector, and of some unknown transaction. It seemed that Miss Rowley knew of some occurrence between Daddy and Hector that had been kept from her. 

"I think," she had said, after a pause, "that it would be uncommonly poor of me to question the man who raised me."

"Would it not also be uncommonly poor of Mister Cowell and his compatriots to be allowed to continue with their schemes?" Miss Rowley had asked. "Please, Marnie. Give it some thought. He wouldn't necessarily have to show his face. Right now all we need is information." She looked away then, fiddling with a loose sheet on the desk. "You wouldn't have let Hector bring you here if you didn't think there was something to it."

And that was the crux of the matter; something in Cowell's manner, some cruel turn to his lips had allowed her to be cajoled by Hector to Lime Grove. It was that same intangible discontent that brought her to lunch today. 

"Marnie, sweetheart, forgive me – I'm running late." Daddy appeared at her elbow, leaning down to press his lips fleetingly to her cheek.

"Daddy, hello." 

They spent a little while exchanging pleasantries, Marnie enquiring about Mummy's plans for the end of summer, and Daddy asking carefully after Hector, his diction pointed but never in admonishment. There had been the briefest moment when Daddy had been ready to loose Marnie from Hector, propriety be damned. But Marnie had known, and Daddy, too, that for all the hubbub, Hector's name was still mostly in good stead. He and Mister Lyon had reported on Mister Cilenti's efforts to profit from the nuclear arms race, and whilst his indiscretions had remained public knowledge, his name had been cleared of the beating. The misery of the thing was that Marnie had lost much, and Hector, it sometimes seemed to her, so little. There had been no pride to retain by the end of the debacle, and the whole year she had been shadowed by unkind whispers.

Daddy is launching into story about Ralph's latest entrepreneurial mishap when Marnie decides enough is enough. Setting her teacup back in the saucer, she has to interrupt. "Daddy, I'm so sorry. I've brought you here under false pretences. I must speak with you about something."

Though china continues to clink in the background, Daddy stills and silences. She has his undivided attention immediately, and is awash with gratitude. If nothing else, she can be certain that he will listen to what she has to say. He will let her speak her piece without interruption before he answers.

"You remember that weekend in July, when we saw the last of the sun? Do you remember us in the garden? Yates had done such a lovely job with the hedgerow and the lawn, and we were taking drinks in front of the little pond?" Daddy nods slowly, brow furrowed. "Daddy, do you remember what Mister Cowell said, about the proposed reform of the cotton mills? He was quite drunk; Mummy was so upset. I think she found it quite the show. But." She pauses, her mouth dry. "Do you think he meant what he said?"

Daddy doesn't speak immediately. Lifting the spoon from its place on the saucer, he stirs his tea once, twice, a third time before tapping it lightly on the rim of the cup. The china rings out sweetly, spoon rattling in counterpoint when he drops it back into the saucer. "Thomas Cowell has never been his brother's equal," he says at last, lifting the cup to take a sip. "He should not have behaved as he did that weekend."

"No, I can't dispute that," Marnie says, "but what he said, you don’t think—"

"Marnie, when has the industry interested you? This is no concern of yours."

"Hector begs to differ."

This time when Daddy fails to answer, Marnie can sense his irritation.

"Mister Lyon – you remember him, that quick young man who works with Hector. But Mister Lyon was reporting on the immigrants who had been invited to work in the mills, or some such, and he spoke to some of the gentleman who own the factories. And I wouldn't have thought anything about it, but, Daddy, Mister Cowell had been so brash, and so profane, I couldn’t possibly forget. And Mister Lyon is looking at the government's grant proposals for the home affairs portion of _The Hour_ …" She trails off, realising she has followed every tangent away from the topic at hand. "He would like very much to speak with you—" Daddy makes a vehement noise of protest, "—not on camera, just for education purposes. Research and fact-finding and the like. It wouldn't expose you to anything."

"How could they expose me?" Daddy scoffs. "Cotton is not my trade."

"No, of course, Daddy, I know," Marnie says. "I just meant that you would have nothing to fear in speaking to Mister Lyon and Hector."

"Are you attempting—" Daddy stops himself abruptly before taking a breath, gathering himself as though to start anew. "Marnie, you do not owe Hector anything. Hector is indebted to you."

Marnie thinks of the first time she realised that her husband's affections had feet. She thinks of how much it had hurt, and how that hurt had soured each time it had happened. She had never spoken of Hector's transgressions except to the women he performed them with. She certainly did not raise the matter with her family, though Daddy had always been shrewd, and she doubts silence had ever truly kept it from him. But the news scandal had changed the balance. Now Hector's philandering was public, and, shamed as he had been, he had learned from the experience. Cilenti and El Paradise had been rock bottom, or so Marnie hopes. She is not naïve; she knows that old habits are hard to break. But her faith is greater now than it has been before. The hurt still keens, but she can bear it. She has borne it all this while.

"Hector's flaws are many, Daddy, and I'm more than aware of the repercussions of his… dalliances." Daddy raises a brow at the choice of phrase, but keeps his thoughts to himself. "I forgive him the scandal, I do. He took to national television to confess his part in it. He lives with the burden of others' opinions and derision." She smiles sadly. "I don't owe Hector a damn thing, and I won't for a long time. But I know this much about him. Hector is led by his pursuit of honesty. _The Hour_ has done that to him, it's made him hungry for so much more than complacency for the sake of silence."

Lifting her teacup, Marnie looks Daddy in the eye. "For all his flaws, the harm he does is small. But Mister Cowell intends to rob the country for his own gain. It's a case of right and wrong, Daddy, and the greater wrong seems evident to me." She drinks from the cup; savours the sugar. "If even Hector can see the benefit in honesty, can't you?"

Lifting his own cup, Daddy thinks over Marnie's words. She can see the moment when he becomes resigned to action. Peering at her from over his cup and saucer, he gives a wry smile.

"Touché."

 

 

 

They travel to Lime Grove together the next day. Hector had already left for work, a few hours before, but Marnie and Daddy weren't due for their meeting with Mister Brown and Mister Lyon until half-past ten. Daddy had spent the night with them after returning from his dinner, and he had been civil with Hector. It was a talent Marnie had inherited from her parents: maintaining the status quo in the absence of anything happier. 

They are shown to Mister Randall's office by the young lady who had given Marnie tea on her previous visit, and there they encounter Mister Lyon. As all four are settling down, the door opens again, and Hector enters.

"Ah, Hector," Mister Randall says, unperturbed. "Take a seat."

Several things come to light over the course of the hour. Chief amongst these is the state of Mister Lyon's story. It quickly becomes evident that his research has been thorough, and that he has spoken to all manner of people associated with the Lancashire mills. He is as forthright as ever when speaking to Daddy, unflinching and declarative. Daddy answers all the questions he has, some quite pointed. Secondly, it seems there is a greater need for Daddy's participation than Marnie was first led to believe. Change has been afoot in the two days since she last came to Lime Grove. Daddy is most displeased.

When they break for lunch, Daddy takes Marnie aside. "I think you had best go home."

"But Daddy—"

"This is business, Marnie." He won't be moved; his determination is plain.

"It's just the punctuation now, Marnie," Hector says, kindly. "We've put most of it together. You won't miss anything by going home."

She nods, carefully. "If you think that best, Daddy." She gives him a kiss on his cheek, and then Hector, then turns on her heel and leaves.

 

 

 

 **IV: THE STUDIO**  
By some contrivance, Hector leads the story.

Marnie watches from the studio floor as Mister Lyon meets Daddy at the news desk. It's been over a week since their meeting in Mister Randall's office, and many things have changed. In the world of news, nothing is the same one hour to the next. Marnie wonders if the reporting is worth it. But there must be something to it or else all these people, these sharp minds that Hector is endeared of, wouldn't toil so.

Daddy is worn but resolute. Marnie watches as Mister Lyon leads him through the schedule. "We'll begin with the government's proposal to help the industry, move onto the race story, and then Hector will talk to you about the possible pitfalls." There will be no mention of Mister Cowell's intentions, honourable or otherwise. What Marnie had borne witness to could at best be hearsay - at worst, slander. But a decision has been made to use the show as a cautionary tale. Daddy will be _The Hour_ 's expert opinion, pointing out the holes in the governments plans an asking that more rigour be applied if the bill comes to pass. Fiscal responsibility, Miss Storm calls it.

As she watches the floor manager usher people and cameras into position, someone takes Marnie by the elbow and steers her to the production booth. She turns to find herself face to face with Randall Brown. "I think you'll be more comfortable with us, Mrs Madden. Don't fret; your father is in good hands." They both look back onto the floor where Daddy is conferring with Hector over one of Mister Lyon’s explanatory charts. Both men look up as though hearing their names. Daddy nods; Hector gives a small smile. Mister Randall peers at her in an attempt to discern her mood. Pleased with what he finds, he turns them both back to the steps up to the booth.

From the large windows, Marnie can see the array of cameras and Hector’s desk against the set. Miss Rowley has a stopwatch in hand, and Miss Storm leans over the counter to watch the proceedings. Where the offices are a record of the work that goes into production, the production booth, however cluttered with people and machines, is quiet and orderly. Everything here works with mechanical precision, dictated by the clock on the wall and overseen by the keen eyes of Mister Randall and Miss Rowley. 

“Are you ready?” Miss Storm asks, glancing at her from above her fantastic spectacles. “There’s nothing to worry about. This is all rather routine.”

“I’m not worried,” Marnie says, and is a little surprised to find that is the truth. She is not concerned. Daddy is not on the show to cause a scandal; he is there to inform the public in his capacity as a high-ranking entrepreneur. Hector is not defending himself; he is reporting the news. Marnie has nothing to fear and nothing to feel shame about. Everything will run by the second hand of the clock, and in just over an hour, they will be done with it all. 

Marnie looks over at Miss Storm and Miss Rowley, both of whom are watching her intently. “No, really, I’m not worried at all. It’s really rather exciting, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” says Miss Rowley, sharing a rare grin. “It is rather.”

**END.**

**Author's Note:**

> In the very first draft of this fic – and there were many, I assure you – Marnie wore the most beautiful gloves. They had to be taken out for expediency's sake, but I mention them here lest they be overlooked completely. It would have been a crime.


End file.
